


A Pint of Beer

by fierysuzaku



Series: A Toast to Good Company [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Drinking Games, Drunken Confessions, M/M, Male Bonding, Romance, hints of jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierysuzaku/pseuds/fierysuzaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America asks England out for some drinks and ended up talking about a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pint of Beer

 

> **one of those times he wishes he was drunk but not…**

 

The pint to lager sloshes and spills across the table as the mugs slam in harried unison while the crowd shouts and cheers. England wonders how a simple offer of drinks turned into this strange courtship ritual of slamming down various amounts of alcohol and spewing out random tidbits about one’s self.

_I’m too bloody fucking sober for this shite,_ he concludes as he drains his own pint while he watches the two nations make themselves the entertainment for the night. Granted that said entertainment was usually in the form of him, Prussia and Denmark braying out songs in sheer drunken dishevelment, but that’s another story all together.

“You’re looking unusually sober.”

_Unfortunately._

He harrumphs as a signature well-catered glare is cast, the receiver simply preens with amused glee.

 “Why are you here, Frog?” he asks not because France was not expected to be here. He’s just early.

**_Too_ ** _early._

“A little bird told me you needed the company seeing your buddy for the night decided to cast his attentions elsewhere,” France admits with a smirk as he watches said drinking buddy make an utter fool of himself.

_As if that’s anything new._

“By bird you mean a loud mouth Prussian eagle. I don’t suppose I should throw in a Great Dane as well…” he bites out, as he signals for a couple more. As most nations may not believe, he can actually hold his alcohol just bloody fine. He just doesn’t know when to stop or pace himself sometimes so he gets sloshed faster.

France laughs and England has to remind himself that now would not be a good time to knock out his designated driver for the night.

“They’re just a bit upset you decided to go drinking without them,” he points out earning a scoff as England slams the mug with a strong thud.

“Bunch of immature brats, they are,” England grouses casting his gaze once more to the direction of the drinking contest.

“Who?”

_The two drunkards or the pair idiots who just confessed their love in a sudden spurt of drunken confidence to a crowd of strangers?_

He heaves a long harrowing sigh.

“Both.”

> **before a single drop of alcohol was consumed…**

“Aw, come on. Please,” he bats his lashes and gives out that all-too-familiar pair of puppy dog eyes.

“For the last time, no,” he bites out, annoyance strong in his voice as he glares at the young upstart before him.

“Come on, you never turn down an offer,” he whines daring to sport a damn quivering pout that makes England want to– if not for the lobby of curious spectators – smash his fist in, because he was tired and while a nice pint of lager seems heavenly, he _much_ prefers the warmth and peace of his bedroom.

**_Not_ ** _the rowdiness of a pub with an overly enthusiastic nineteen-year-old – who seems to have suddenly developed a curiosity to how I spend my drinking nights – in tow._

Personally, he blames a certain pair of loud-mouth idiots who just can’t seem to let those nights of wild abandon rest.

“Did you, or did you not just hear me repeatedly turning you down?” his eyes narrow and his arms cross against his chest.

He refuses to give in.

“You’re no fun.”

The comment actually struck a nerve.

“I’m _plenty_ of fun. _You_ just have lousy timing,” he refutes, poking America in extra emphasis.

“No, I don’t. You just don’t want to go drinking with me,” he retorts as he stubbornly holds ground.

England inwardly groans, cursing the heavens.

“We’re finally getting on the crux of the matter. Yes, America. I do not want to go drinking with you!” he snaps all fire and bite only to falter when a pair of blue eyes softens with genuine hurt.

“Why?”

“Because!” he struggles to regain his previous momentum and fails, “I’m bloody tired and I want a few moments of peace before everything turns into bloody Bedlam again,” he sighs, as he pinches the bridge of his nose reigning in back his calm.

“You just want to cuddle up with France…” America grumbles.

“I do not!”

 “Yeah, right. I get it. The centuries have finally taken their toll on you.”

_The nerve!_

“I’m just gonna ask someone else, like China for example.”

_Over my dead body!_

“Fine! I’ll go. But listen here you manipulative brat, if I end up babysitting your arse the whole bloody night, there will be Hell to pay,” he declares in poking emphasis as he tries to ignore the smug triumphant grin on America’s face.

“Psh, you’re one to talk. Who was it that dragged your drunken ass back home again? You know, _before_ you and France decided to work out a system.”

England snorts.

The said system was simple: Don’t get drunk at the same time or you’ll both regret it. And if they do get drunk (under unavoidable circumstances), they must make sure to call Canada, not America because he likes to take videos and shares them to everyone.

“Oh, belt it,” he says as he shrugs off the blurry memories of an exasperated American dragging him home and back to bed.

“And don’t act as if you’re the only one who’ll come to my aid!”

“Oh? Give me a list then. Maybe we can swap stories.”

“Canada. I distinctly remember Canada helping me and sending me home properly. Sometimes, it’s Japan…and... Russia, when I mistakenly drank his vodka thinking it was water that one time,” he answers with a hint of reluctance, not failing to miss the flicker of acknowledgement in the boy’s eyes slowly clouding with suspicion. 

“What?”

“I was already sloshed. Forgive me for not noticing the difference,” he drawls out with a deadpan look.

“No, I mean you drink with Russia?”

Was it just him or did he not just detect a hint of edge on America’s tone.

_But then again, this is Russia we are talking about…_

“Yes, sometimes. Purely, innocent. Well, as innocent as we’re capable of… oh, calm down. He didn’t do anything,” he says inwardly hoping that America will not rush off looking for a fight about Russia taking advantage of his lowered defenses.  

The lack of vocal declarations is unnerving. It makehim wonder if there is another motive behind this offer.

_I am going to regret this_ , he sighs.

“Come on, I know a good pub,” he declares, snapping the young nation out of his musings as he drags him out to the nearest pub.   

> **in which the influence of alcohol slowly creeps in…**

The pub buzzes with life. He feels the warm fuzz of alcohol-induced marry making melt the cold nips of the night air upon their fingertips.

“A bit rowdy, tonight aren’t they,” America comments while England gave him a look.

“Never been to a pub have you lad,” he jeers making the other flush and open out a retort which he effortlessly ignores as he flops down on one of the stools and calls out to the bartender for a couple of pints. He expects it to gradually increase in number as the night wears on.

It was all fine and dandy until…

“So you and France…”

_Blunt as always I see,_ he sighs as he focuses back on his drinking companion.

“What about it?” he drawls out – alcohol already taking its toll on his senses, making him feel more lax and open. And by open, it means answering strange out of the blue questions from an overly curious American.

“Well… you two have been fighting for a long time and I was wonder…”

“How either of us is still alive?” he cuts him off as he continues to a long list of offenses that occurred between them.

“Why, there was even the time when – ”

“No! I mean… Well…”

“It’s not like to be so inarticulate, Alfred,” he observes, finding the image of America grappling for the right words both amusing and suspicious.

“It’s just that… I don’t understand how you guys manage to get along so well… despite everything…”

“Despite all the wars, betrayals, lies and blood that paved our histories you mean,” he says bluntly, the lack of retort makes his eyes narrow, his mind racing for conclusions as America’s lips thin and fidgets in discomfort.

“What is this _really_ about, Alfred?”

“How?”

His mind be lagging because clearly he missed the rest of the sentence.

“Pardon?”

“How do you guys do it? How do you make it work?” he asks, England can feel the cogs in his brain working out a proper explanation for this turn of events.

“How do we manage to shake off our people’s influence you mean?” he reiterates and Alfred bites his lip in response. The action itself sets off a few alarms.

The discomfort.

The lack of eye contact.

The strange questions.

_Oh._

“You shouldn’t force yourself you know. It takes time… learning not to succumb to your people’s influence is a long hard process. I’m sure, you’ll grow to control yourself better in –” he says, venturing into a thought which he hopes to lead towards the main point of the matter.

“But I want to learn control now!” Alfred declares, blues eyes bright with fire and frustration, startling him with its intensity.

Alfred must have decided to read the atmosphere for once and calms down, settling back to his seat and takes large gulps of his drink.

“I’m tired okay,” he admits with a deep sigh, reminding Arthur just how this nation before him had changed.  “Everything has been piling up and going to shit. I… I can’t think straight if I keep having the public’s opinion ramming into my skull,” he adds, his features shifting into neutral and contemplative.

“You asked about France and I… about our relationship. Does it bother you?” he prods, there is a certain thing he dislikes about the consensus, how public opinions shape and change their personalities.

Their views.

“What?! No! Are you kidding! I totally ship you two!” Alfred gives him a bright goofy smile and a thumbs-up.

“I don’t know if I should be disturbed or not by your form of support.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Alfred blinks, all naïve and clueless.

“Nothing. But let’s stop deviating from the topic at hand shall we?” he says they fall in silence once more.

“What are you so worried about?” he asks, hoping that he’ll open up.

The seconds tick, and he waits.

The rowdy noises and shouts dwindle towards the background as his thoughts flee elsewhere.

“I…”

The thoughts halt and his attention shifts.

“I feel _so young_ sometimes… I take everything so personally and I… I don’t know if what I feel is real or just another consensus…”

He takes a pause and recalls the past events once more.

_“So, you and France…”_

_Could it be?_ He wonders, his emerald gaze taking in the young nations discomfort and hesitance.

_Well, it’s worth a try._

“Dare I ask… who’s the unfortunate soul that you had taken a fancy to?”

A blush.

An episode of gapes and arm flails.

_Time for the finishing blow._

“It’s Russia isn’t it,” he concludes and the blush reddens even further.

“W-What! I d-don’t know what t-talking about!” America denies, a nervous laugh escapes his lips.

“You’re stuttering,” he points out, suddenly making America turn for the defensive.

“No, I’m not! Besides, what does that commie bastard have to do with it?”

A pout.

A cross of arms and a redirected gaze.

Arthur briefly wonders what so interesting about the pub’s dirty floor.

“Well, you asked about my relationship with France… and… well, I could only assume you want to better relations with Russia… considering how you two fight as much as we do…” he explains making the other wince.

“Was I _really_ that obvious?” he dares to ask.

“Well…” Arthur hesitates to answer.  

“Fuck! Everyone knows don’t they! I bet there’s a poll or something… with bets on when we’ll finally get together,” he cringes, giving in a bit to the dramatics making Arthur’s eyes roll.

“Speaking from experience?”

“Well, yeah! I like won a thousand bucks on poll about when you and… oops.”

“That’s okay,” he assures, surprising the American.

“Really? You don’t mind?”

“No, but please do make sure to make up for it by holding off your confession for at least a week or so.”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry, lad. I ship you two too.”

He dares to let his lips curl into smirk.

“You know what! I don’t want to know who else is in on this. Though, I already have rough estimate on who… ”

“Oh, relax would you. It’s just a bit of fun,” he says as he pats Alfred’s back as they deviate and went on to other topics of interest.  

Eventually, as biology and nature dictates, Alfred crudely excuses himself for a piss. Then, at that exact moment, when his gaze shift, he was met with a couple of indignant gazes.

Dark ruby and icy blue.

That is practically the point where everything begins practically rolling down the hill.

“England?!”

_Oh, bollocks._

> **where the alcohol starts wearing off…**

“Let me guess, that’s when you met Prussia and Denmark. How did they even provoke, the child?”

“They told America that Russia and China are plotting world domination,” he explains as he shoulders the unconscious American unto his shoulders while they walk towards the car.

“And he believed them?!” France exclaims in disbelief, pausing briefly to turn and hover the key over the lock just so.

“In all honesty? No. I think the git just wanted Russia’s attention. Anyways, America rushed off, confronting them with this insane traide of accusations,” he mused, finally getting a good grip on the boy. He would have teleported him instead but he already used up his magic to transport Russia.

“Honhonhon, little America was jealous?” His eyes were practically twinkling as he opens car door and England position America in. 

 “The only thing missing was to paint him green. Eventually, it led on to an argument which got them into a drinking match,” he quips, joining France at the front and straps in.

“Ah! But not an ordinary drinking match. I believe it’s one of those games where they must finish a pint of lager as fast as possible and answer the first question they hear,” he grins as he drives, recalling the blushes and looks of shock that were plastered on the nation’s faces before England decidedly thought that, it was enough entertainment for one night.

“Yes. Now that I’ve answered your questions, kindly assist me in dragging this dolt back to his room!” he glares while the other chuckle at his situation. But nevertheless, France agrees instead of letting him suffer for it.

When they finally arrive at the hotel he hooks one of his arms around the unconscious American and helps England drag him to his suite.  

 “We wouldn’t be dragging an unconscious American right now if you didn’t feel the need to cockblock the child. They were getting along quite nicely before you decided to smash them in with those strange spells of yours and send the Russian back to his hotel room.”

“It’s either that or me personally slamming their heads on to the table,” he grumbles as he takes America’s key and opens the door, “Besides, I am not allowing Alfred to make decisions based on alcohol. If they really reciprocate such feelings, they should work it out sober and sane.”

The statement makes France scoff.

“Sober? Possible. Sane? We wish, _mon cher_.”

“You know what I mean,” he sighs as he tucks America in.

“I know. You don’t want Alfred to question himself and do something he’ll regret the next day. Ever the dotting mother hen…” he teases, noting that Alfred is now wearing a pair of comfy sweats instead of his jeans.

This, quite predictably of course elicits a faint blush on the Englishman’s cheeks.

“Shut up, Frog.”

> **events prior to the inevitable headaches the next morning…**

“The stars are beautiful tonight,” Francis remarks as they make their journey back to their hotel after parking the car. Upon noting the lack of response, he chose to continue, “too bad we missed our chance, it would’ve been nice to lie and cuddle underneath such a starry night.”

Still no answer.

“I’m not upset… there will many more nights for us,” he says as he moves to hold Arthur’s hand.

“I know.”

Francis decides on another angle of approach.

“They will work it out you know. _We_ worked out just fine.”

Their eyes meet under the moonlight and stars.

Unspoken words.

Shared memories and more.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Their time will come,” Arthur smiles as he inches a bit closer, muttering something about the cold while he laces their fingers together and share a kiss.

He was really _really_ cold you see.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would be lovely.


End file.
